Keith’s eyes turned to his stepdaughter, questioning, the truth. The thought echoed through her mind, and she warned the older man to be careful about using his telepathic talent right now. However, in acknowledgment she nodded her head a fraction. The black man took a long, deep breath. “We are not from your time. We are from very far in your future — more than eight hundred, closer to nine hundred years to be more precise.”

Already the musketeers were trading looks that plainly told them they thought Keith was lying through his teeth or fit for the madhouse. “There has been a big disturbance in the time continuum that sent a man we know as Herzog Konrad into the twenty-first century, where he wreaked so much havoc that the entire timeline was drastically changed. We came back here to obtain your help to find the man and stop him from destroying the future of this entire world.” Keith ran out of words to say.

“Of course, and I’ve walked on the moon numerous times.” Porthos’ voice was plainly deriding, and it was only a warning look from Laurel that stopped him from forcibly ejecting the three lunatics.

“Actually, men do walk on the moon in the midtwentieth,” Daryl piped up and then abruptly fell silent, not wanting to get into an argument with the large man. No telling what damage a man that strong could do to him, and the medical facilities around here left a great deal to be desired.

D’Artagnan slid his gaze to Laurel. She was far too serious and still. Was the marquise actually considering this delusion of madness as truth? “Do you actually believe them?” the youngest musketeer asked.

“Can I take the chance that they aren’t lying to me and turn my back on them only to find out that Konrad really does do what they claim he does?” Laurel sank onto the sofa next to her friend. “Put it this way. I don’t disbelieve them.” She couldn’t afford to, and her gut instinct was to trust Jala. More often than not her instincts were accurate. That was one trait she and her stepsister, Sabine, had often shared. The lingering memory of loss and betrayal still gave her a pang of anguish, and she pushed it away quickly.

“Laurel,” Jala handed the woman the pack and urged her to open it, “I’d like you to take a look at this. Just be careful. Some of that stuff is quite sensitive, and I wouldn’t want anyone here to get hurt.”

Laurel pulled the strange veston from the pack and held it up so she could get a better look at it. Never before had she seen anything remotely like it. The material itself was nothing like any cloth anywhere in the known world, as far as she could ascertain, and she had traveled extensively with her father on his spy missions. The marquise reached into one of the pockets and withdrew a handheld link, the comstat.

Though, she had no idea what it was, still, it mesmerized her. The unit was well beyond any technology of her age. Jala was telling the truth. She was convinced of it even though her friends were not. She could tell by the skeptical looks on their faces. Laurel replaced the items in the pack and handed it back to the other woman.

The marquise got to her feet. At that moment Athos halted her. “You mean to go with them?”

“Oui, Athos. Even though you do not believe, I do. And I must go.”

“Laurel, you have no idea who these people are. It could well be an elaborately contrived hoax.” Aramis gently grasped her arms as he spoke.

“Now look who doesn’t want to see the truth,” she murmured and then lifted her head, challenging. “If you are so worried about me, then come with me.” She offered them the challenge.

“To the future?” D’Artagnan queried, skeptical and curious at the same time.

“That would be my assumption,” Laurel quipped more to hide her own nervousness than anything else. Sometimes she wanted to throw their overprotectiveness back in their faces.